


Maintaining Cover

by MontanaHarper



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Elevator Sex, First Time, Hand Jobs, M/M, Plot What Plot, Public Sex, Undercover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-06
Updated: 2012-09-06
Packaged: 2017-11-13 17:03:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/505754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MontanaHarper/pseuds/MontanaHarper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You're starting to attract attention, Barton," Coulson's voice says in Clint's ear as Clint turns away another guy who wants to buy him a drink. "And not the good kind."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Maintaining Cover

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Undefined](https://archiveofourown.org/works/383922) by [grydo2life](https://archiveofourown.org/users/grydo2life/pseuds/grydo2life). 



"You're starting to attract attention, Barton," Coulson's voice says in Clint's ear as Clint turns away another guy who wants to buy him a drink. "And not the good kind."

Clint shifts, a nonverbal _What do you want me to do about it?_ in the form of a subtle one-shouldered shrug that he knows Coulson will understand. The hotel bar is starting to fill up, but he's still got an unobstructed sight-line to SHIELD's current PoI via the mirror that runs the length of the room behind rows of bottles.

Movement near the door catches his attention and he shifts his gaze to see two big guys in suits homing in on him. He hums tunelessly, another signal he knows Coulson will pick up on.

His comm remains surprisingly silent. Clint glances down at his drink for a second, running tactical options in his head, and when he looks up again, Coulson is stepping up to the bar beside him, every inch the tired executive far from home. With a shy, nervous smile Clint's never seen before, Coulson leans forward to whisper in Clint's ear, one hand resting casually on Clint's thigh, heat bleeding through the denim as though it wasn't even there. In his peripheral vision, Clint sees the goons stop moving toward him.

"I think it's time you let someone pick you up," Coulson says softly, his breath warm on Clint's ear. "We need your cover intact."

Clint turns his head before Coulson has time to pull back, lets his lips brush the corner of Coulson's mouth as he says, "Sure." He slides off the barstool and into Coulson's space, wearing his cockiest grin, and gives a tiny nod toward the bank of hotel elevators. "C'mon."

As soon as the elevator doors close, he pins Coulson into a back corner of the car. They both know there are definitely cameras and possibly microphones, and the faint flush across Coulson's cheeks hasn't faded at all. Clint captures Coulson's mouth in a kiss that's gentler than it looks, working Coulson's shirttail out of his pants and sliding one hand up underneath, palming warm skin and feeling the shift as Coulson breathes.

There are dozens of ways to fake it for the benefit of whoever's watching the surveillance feeds; Clint's done it countless times before, and he's sure Coulson has, as well. And if Clint's actually hard from just thinking about giving Coulson a handjob, well, no one will ever know because it only looks like they're pressed together from chest to thigh.

Clint shifts his stance a little and moves his arm, but before he can pretend to be undoing Coulson's pants, Coulson reaches around him and activates the emergency stop. There's a surprising absence of alarms as the elevator coasts to a halt. Clint raises his eyebrows, but when he gets nothing more than a tiny quirking of the corners of Coulson's mouth in response, he leans in for another kiss. Maintaining cover. Got it.

Maybe it's the low thrum of arousal running through Clint that's thrown him off, or maybe they're just uncharacteristically out of sync, but they both shift at the same time and the movement brings their hips together. Clint's first instinct is to pull away like he's been burned, and he actually puts a couple of inches between them before he gets it under control. For a moment the only reaction from Coulson is an almost imperceptible stutter in the restless movement of his hands over Clint's biceps and shoulders and back, and then he's curving his fingers over Clint's ass, tugging him in until Clint can feel that Coulson is hard, too.

It's a little like being bowled over by a wave close to shore; there's a second of feeling shocked and disoriented and breathless, and then the exhilaration hits. He fumbles with Coulson's pants, unfastening them with an embarrassing lack of dexterity, still half waiting for Coulson to pull away, to signal him to slow down or stop. Instead, Coulson's head tips back against the wall with a soft thud as Clint wraps a hand around his cock.

"Oh, yeah, just like that," Coulson says, and there's something in his voice that Clint's never heard before, something that sets sparks running along Clint's spine and makes him shiver. "God, you have amazing hands."

Clint wants to take forever to do this, wants to tease every possible reaction from Coulson and catalog them all, but eventually someone's going to notice the elevator isn't moving and make a scene about it, and with Clint's luck it's going to be sooner rather than later. He slides his thumb through the slick precome beading at the tip of Coulson's cock and feels Coulson shudder silently against him, a welcome echo of his own desire.

They're back in sync now, Coulson's hips moving in counterpoint to Clint's hand, bodies pressed together in earnest instead of just for the benefit of the camera, and Clint slips his free hand under Coulson's shirt again, fingers splayed against the small of Coulson's back, feeling the shift of muscle beneath warm, damp skin. It's not long before Coulson's breathing turns harsh and his body tenses, and _Jesus Christ_ , Clint thinks, his brain shorting out a little at the idea, _I just made **Coulson** come._

For a second neither of them moves, and then Coulson—sex-flushed and a little out of breath, but far more composed than he has any right to be as far as Clint is concerned—produces a handkerchief and holds it out. Clint very deliberately brings his hand to his mouth and begins to lick away the salty, bitter traces of Coulson's climax from his fingers, his gaze never leaving Coulson's face. 

The instant Clint drops his hand, Coulson is on him, mouth rough and demanding in a way their previous kisses had appeared but hadn't actually been. Clint groans and tugs Coulson flush against him, ruts shamelessly against Coulson's hip until Coulson pulls back and slides easily to his knees, his hands working Clint's fly open, and Clint's remaining brain cells take a short vacation. Never in his (infrequent, honestly, swear to God) fantasies about his handler has Clint imagined Coulson reciprocating. He reaches out blindly and braces himself on the walls, gaze trapped by the sight of Coulson's elegant fingers carefully easing his zipper down to free his aching cock.

Coulson looks up at him, a hint of raised eyebrow and a tiny curve to one corner of his mouth, and Clint can read his expression as clearly as if he'd spoken: _Commando? Really, Barton?_

Clint gives a little half-shrug. "Nothing comes between me and my Calvins?" he tries, and is rewarded with a soft huff of laughter that skates over his cock and makes him shiver.

He reaches down and tilts Coulson's face up. _You don't have to do this,_ he thinks, trusting in Coulson's ability to read him. The look he gets back is fond but exasperated, and then Coulson wraps his fingers around Clint's wrist and gently tugs until Clint's hand is curved around the back of his neck. Without breaking eye contact, Coulson angles Clint's cock out a little and takes the tip into his mouth, and Clint closes his eyes against the visual because it's too much, too good.

The combination of wet heat and Coulson on his knees for Clint— _fuck_ —is overwhelming. He was close before Coulson even touched him, and now it takes all the focus he's carefully cultivated over years as a sniper to keep from going off like he's fourteen and it's his first time. Then Coulson makes a soft little sound and takes Clint all the way in, throat closing tight around the head of Clint's cock, and that's it, Clint is _gone_.

"I can't—" he gets out, fingers tightening in the damp hair at the nape of Coulson's neck and tugging a little, but Coulson doesn't pull back, just makes another sound—louder this time, the vibrations like an electric current through Clint's cock—and swallows as Clint comes.

When the black spots finally clear from Clint's vision, his jeans are buttoned and zipped, and Coulson is standing again, tucking his own shirt back into his re-fastened pants. Clint moves back a little to give Coulson room, slouching casually against the side of the elevator for the benefit of the cameras, and reaches to disengage the emergency stop. The last two floors go by in silence, and then the doors slide open to reveal a nondescript hallway. 

"This is me," Coulson says, with the same shy-businessman smile he'd given Clint in the bar, and steps forward and off the elevator. When Coulson hesitates and turns back, Clint puts his hand out automatically to hold the doors, and Coulson tangles his fingers in the front of Clint's shirt and tugs him forward. "Thanks."

The kiss is sweet and slow and somehow Clint knows that it has nothing to do with maintaining his cover.

He grins. "Anytime," he says, and he means it.

**Author's Note:**

> I cannot possibly thank [**casspeach**](http://archiveofourown.org/users/casspeach) enough. She betas, cheerleads, holds my hand, and just is basically my lifeline when I'm writing.
> 
> [ **grydo2life**](http://archiveofourown.org/users/grydo2life)'s _Undefined_ inspired this with the following exchange:
>
>> Clint tosses him what would, under normal circumstances, be a leer; coupled with the tired look in his eyes and slump to his shoulders, it just looks fond. “Well, this is inappropriate.”
>> 
>> Phil actually snorts. “We’ve had sex in an elevator to maintain cover, and _this_ is where you draw the line?”
> 
> ♥


End file.
